


Most Magical

by ftlow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Music, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftlow/pseuds/ftlow
Summary: A short story (post-war) containing a 'magic beyond all we do here' and the new friendship between two of our favourite ladies.





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione knew that being Head Girl was going to be a stressful job, and she knew that fitting back into the Hogwarts environment in time to take the biggest exams of her life, even after her year of 'camping', was going to be tough as well. So far, though, the perks definitely outweighed the worries she had for the coming year.

Smirking at the thoughts of what her best friends Harry and Ron would have said, if they weren't training for a Quidditch team and inventing new spells respectively, Hermione glanced in wonder around her circular room. She was almost at the top of Gryffindor tower, figuratively and literally; the only position higher now was the Head of Gryffindor House, and her room and bathroom were tucked under the tower's very eaves. Her room was her own – her very own space. It was huge –twelve paces from one side to the other – and the four-poster bed was exactly the same as the ones she was used to, except it was a grand, proud double-bed; the hangings were less faded, unless she was imagining it, and currently were whispering and rustling in the breeze from the open windows. There were bookshelves, a small sofa, a chest of drawers and an ornate wardrobe, and so much open space that Hermione felt quite small and insignificant.

After doing a full turn, surveying the room while humming a cheerful, contented tune, a wide smile graced her face. She knew that the second door led to a bathroom – her very own bathroom, with a bath like the one in the prefects'! This year was going to be brilliant, she decided, even without the boys. She sobered briefly at that thought, but she still had Ginny.

"Are there any special requests for your room, Miss Granger? A specific password, a particular item…?" The Scottish lilt made Hermione jump. She'd forgotten that her Head of House was still here. She turned to face the older witch with a blinding smile, one hand trailing along a bookshelf; it was smooth beneath her fingertips, and the smooth sound of skin on wood was pleasant. "A secret shortcut to the library?" Minerva joked, smiling at the excited expression she was presented with – which fell when Hermione realised she was being teased. "Sorry – couldn't resist."

Hermione didn't mind. "It's fine, Professor, I got teased enough about the library through school. I'm used to it." Seeing her Professor looking a little guilty, Hermione hurried on. "Anyway, I'm just glad to see you looking so happy. I don't think I've ever seen you smile so much!"

Minerva raised an eyebrow as the girl blushed, and shook her head, smiling tightly. It was true, she appreciated, she rarely smiled this much…but the war was now over, Hogwarts was fixed, and the students were back. In particular, this student.

A low cough interrupted the ebony-haired witch's musings, and she and her student glanced around. Above the fireplace – _'I have a fireplace!'_ Hermione thought happily as she heard it crackle and pop – was a portrait which had been empty. Now, it was filled with the kindly-smiling face of –

"Gryffindor? Godric Gryffindor?" Hermione asked, astounded.

"Yes indeed." He answered, eyes crinkling into a smile. "I've come to ask what password you'd like me to hear before allowing anyone into your rooms."

"I can set my own password?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Oh. Well…" she glanced at her Head of House, brushing her bushy hair away from her face. The older witch stuck her fingers in her ears with a smile, but Hermione tugged them down. "That's not what I meant, Professor, I trust you – I was actually looking for inspiration," she told her earnestly. Minerva was surprised and quite touched, and she tried to only nod understandingly; alas the wide smile that graced her features was hard to push down. She came back down to earth in time to see the head girl watching her, head on one side…"Smiling suits you." She declared, and turned back to Godric. This was a blessing; it meant she didn't see Minerva's blush – a blush that only intensified when she heard the girl's chosen password.

"Ébène et émeraude." She announced, with a very impressive French accent. Godric bowed his head, eyes sparkling, and walked sideways out of his frame.

"You speak French?" Minerva asked interestedly, trying to ignore the password's translation. Hermione blushed.

"Some." She confirmed. "My family and I ski there a lot…at least, we did." Sadness graced her elegant features as she remembered her parents, unaware of her existence and living well in Australia, and she sat heavily on the bed, twisting her hands.

"Is there anything else you'd like, Hermione?" Minerva asked kindly. Hermione looked up, surprised at the spontaneous use of her first name, and opened her mouth – but she closed it again almost immediately. That was too much to ask, and the words died on her tongue.

"Go on." The Scottish lilt was gentle, kind. "The worst I can do is say no."

Hermione smiled faintly. "Do you know why I didn't mind the teasing about the library?" She asked quietly, sitting down on her new bed. Minerva sat next to her, reaching for her hand, and shook her head.

"Because I'd rather people teased me for that than they found out the truth," she told her mentor in a rush. She'd never told anyone this before. She took a deep, steadying breath. "I didn't know what the Room of Requirement did until we used it for the DA, but I'd used it since first year…you see, it always appeared to me as a music room. Okay, I did use the library more than most of the other students, but…a lot of the times I 'went to the library', I actually went to the seventh floor."

She chanced a glance at Minerva, whose expression hadn't changed.

"The Room was destroyed by Crabbe's fiendfyre last year, so I can no longer use it. Is there…can I…does Hogwarts have a piano of any kind in it that I can use?"

Minerva smiled widely. "I didn't know you played," she replied. "I'll see what I can do." A warm hand landed on Hermione's shoulder and she covered it with her own, smiling as well.

"Thank you." Minerva was surprised at how relieved the girl looked, and concluded inwardly that it was not just a hobby but an escape for Hermione. This was confirmed in her next sentence. "Last year was hell without one."

The Head of Gryffindor House nodded understandingly. "I never knew you were musical, Hermione," She told her.

"Well-kept secret," The girl muttered, avoiding the emerald gaze.

Catching her chin, Minerva gazed at her. "Why? Why not tell people you were going to the music room? Why such a secret?"

Hermione blushed, but leaned in to her mentor's hand. "I don't like to perform," she said quietly. "If the boys or Ginny knew, they'd want to hear. And not to sound big-headed, but I'm not a bad player…they'd want to listen all the time, and I play for myself. I know, selfish and arrogant, but…"

Minerva felt a little guilty at the girl's words; it was true, she wanted to hear her star student play now. But she nodded her understanding. "I understand, Hermione. And no, you're not selfish – everyone has their secrets. As for arrogant – I've never met anyone less arrogant than you. If you admit that you're good at playing piano, you must be incredible, because you consistently underestimate your talents. Now, if you'll excuse me…I will see what I can do, I promise. But the feast has made me sleepy, and you should settle in." She stood, and Hermione instantly missed the warmth of the hand on her shoulder. Her Professor surprised her by dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm so glad you're here and safe... And I'm so proud of you." The words were so quiet Hermione couldn't be sure she heard them, but she smiled anyway. The portrait of Godric swung closed before she could formulate a reply.

After readying herself for bed, the new Head Girl cast one final glance at the large space across from the portrait hole – directly underneath the window – which was perfect for a piano. Wistfully, Hermione sighed and tucked herself under the duvet, melting into the silky sheets.

* * *

Hermione woke with her alarm, which she stopped magically, and shuffled to the staircase and up the stairs to her bathroom. Her eyes didn't truly open until after she'd showered – singing loudly, revelling in the fact that no-one was there to hear her. She shuffled down the stairs again, braiding her hair over her shoulder, and snapped the bobble into place in time to push the door and step back into her room.

A huge, black wood grand piano filled the exact space she'd stared so longingly at the night before. It was right in front of her eyes, with the weak September sunlight filtering through the window and reflecting off its polished wooden surface. Hermione walked around it, mouth hanging open, hand trailing over it, to find a comfortable-looking black leather stool with a piece of parchment on it.

_Play to your heart's content – it is yours. M_

Hermione tucked the parchment into the liftable lid of the strings, so it just stuck out, not quite processing the words. She sat and lifted the smaller lid, and let her hands rest over the familiar and yet alien keys. Smiling so widely her cheeks ached, she began to play.


	2. Chapter 2

Minerva hummed her way up the spiral staircase in Gryffindor Tower, still smiling to herself at the stunned expressions of the students she'd left behind and bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet; she'd had a very good day. And, to top off her day, she'd just received a from the Minister of Magic, Kingsley, and the Animagus Registry office, which allowed her to offer the Head Girl the chance to become an animagus herself – under her own guidance. She was almost positive that Hermione would jump at the chance, and excel here as she had in many other areas of study and in particular transfiguration; and Minerva wasn't exactly unhappy about the prospect of teaching the young genius.

Bounding up the stairs with the excitement and enthusiasm of a person much younger than herself, Minerva's humming stopped as she reached the portrait, with a grin stretched over her face.

"Evening, Godric," she smiled, inclining her head. "I have good news! _Ébène et émeraude._ "

"Minerva, I…I'm not sure now's a good time," Godric answered carefully.

"Oh, nonsense. Once she hears what I've got to say, she'll put down whatever she's doing," the witch said confidently, smiling widely again. "Come on, Godric, I've given the password. You can't stop me!"

The portrait sighed and bowed his curly-haired head, swinging forward to admit her. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He muttered, but Minerva barely heard; for as soon as the seal between portrait and the wall was broken, a haunting tune met her ears. It was phoenix song, of that she was convinced – and she looked around with a smile, expecting to see her Head Girl lying on her bed, a DC player (or whatever these muggles called them) on her bedside table.

It took her a moment or two to register that the unearthly, beautiful sounds came from the piano she'd asked a small army of house-elves to place in the Head Girl's room two nights before, while she slept. Of course, by this time, its player – encased in a halo of light from the window at her back – had realised her presence. The last notes, which had cut off abruptly, faded into the silence of the room.

Minerva shifted from foot to foot in the doorway, trying to erase the image of the beautiful young woman before her, who looked beautiful and seemed to be illuminated by a spotlight from the window behind, which cast her features into shadow but surrounded her like a halo. Minerva couldn't forget the way she moved with the music she played – the passion that poured from her. She couldn't find a single thing to say– and neither, it seemed, could her student.

Then:

"Get out."

A low and dangerous voice spoke, lingering in the air. Minerva opened her mouth, closed it again, and let her eyes lock with Hermione's –scanning her expression, her hurt look.

"Miss-Hermione, I'm – I'm sorry, I –"

" _Get out_."

Her student stood up, and Minerva didn't think about what would happen next. The words broke something within her, and she turned on her heel and left, already planning to skip dinner.

"I tried," Godric called apologetically, but Minerva didn't respond; she marched angrily down the hallways and corridors, no longer smiling or humming, and the first years who had smiled at her moments before now cowered away from her swiftly marching figure.

Back in her room, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, head in hands. How could she have been so rude? She had given her mentor her password, after all…

 _She knew I didn't want anyone to hear me playing_ , she reasoned, and rubbed at her eyes. She spread her fingers across her legs, tracing their length and each crease with her eyes, hearing the music they made echo through her mind…oh, how she'd missed the piano.

A long and silent while later, the calm left in the wake of the venerable Minerva McGonagall was disturbed by a loud grumbling. Checking her watch, Hermione saw it was hours past dinner.

"Winky?" She asked tentatively. A crack announced the arrival of a small and dishevelled female elf clutching a bottle and sporting a large nose like a squashed tomato. "Hi." She smiled at the elf, who hiccupped back, eyes popping as she did a double-take.

"Y-you was visiting me in the kitchens. You was a very rude girl," the elf squeaked.

"I have grown up a lot since then, Winky. I wanted to apologise, and ask if you'd do me a favour," the Head Girl said earnestly. Winky's ears flapped as she nodded enthusiastically, reminding Hermione painfully of Dobby.

"Winky will always serve however she can."

"Could I have my dinner up here tonight, if there's anything left? I lost track of time and missed the feast."

Winky didn't respond; she vanished with a crack, but was almost immediately replaced with a steaming plate of a lovely meal – some kind of curry. Hermione smiled – it was very different to the normal Hogwarts food (potatoes, meats, vegetables and gravy), but a welcome change. She dug in hungrily, after carrying her meal to her desk, and then laid the plate aside, reaching for a new piece of parchment and a quill. Over her silent hours, doing nothing except examining and saving or discarding thoughts and emotions now and over the past year, she'd been struck by some inspiration.

The next morning her inspiration hadn't faded, and having skipped breakfast, Hermione had taken a seat away from the front of her Transfiguration class. She hadn't felt up to facing a rather thin-lipped Minerva McGonagall, and she couldn't continue her piece near the front; she needed some privacy. With deft flicks and stabs of her quill, Hermione was writing music.

Minerva watched as Hermione completed the practical task in three attempts – of course, she knew the spell already – and settled down to write her essay. The Professor rubbed her grainy-feeling eyes and sat behind her desk on the hard wooden chair, ready to start marking some third-year work. She felt awful, and she didn't know how to make it right; the girl was obviously avoiding her, even at mealtimes. She'd ignored her greeting in the corridor that morning and had moved further from her in lessons. What could she do to fix this?

The end of the lesson came all too soon for both witches, each absorbed in their own thoughts – one musical and one guilt-filled. The bell saw Hermione packing her things without taking her eyes off a page of music, and she continued to read it as she walked to Minerva's desk and placed her essay on it. As the last other student left and the door banged closed, she glanced up and froze.

Turning to look at her Professor, she blushed, but made no move to speak. As the silence stretched on, she made to move for the door, but then Minerva found her voice.

"Hermione, I – I'm so sorry. I should have thought…I just had something to discuss with you. I didn't think that you'd be…I don't know. I'm sorry. Can you forgive me my intrusion?"

Hermione blinked. "I-I…yes. Fine." She turned again to leave, knowing that she had a lesson next and not wanting to lose her train of thought – this section was giving her some trouble.

"Have dinner with me?" Minerva blurted.

 _'What?'_ Hermione, wondering if she'd feel dizzy any time soon from the continuous spinning, turned again to face the desk. "What?" She blurted, echoing her thoughts. It was Minerva's turn to blush, but she did not withdraw the invite.

"Half past six, meet you here?" She asked, a little more sedately than the initial offer.

Hermione swallowed. "Oh- _kay_ …" she dragged the word out, and then nodded. "Thank you," she added, and swung her bag over her shoulder. "I should get to Arithmancy." She smiled weakly and walked out, mind turning rapidly.

Minerva slumped behind her desk, head in hands.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the day was a blur for Hermione, who was a little worried about the evening; she was thinking, brain whirring, wondering... would it be awkward? What should she wear? But she need not have worried; she realised that less than halfway through the night. The dinner passed comfortably enough in the Transfiguration Professor's spacious dining room area, which was easily but discreetly accessed through a well-hidden door in her office; the rest of her living space presumably also nestled there, through the other wooden doors around the room.

  
The meal was passed with small talk and the exchanging of a few smiles, which Hermione was relieved about; she felt guilty enough about her treatment of the older witch after she'd caught her playing, no matter how she tried to justify herself, without their interactions being strained too.

Minerva looked rather striking, Hermione realised part-way through her meal. She herself had chosen to push the boat out and, instead of robes, had dressed in smart jeans and a winter jumper in red, which was simply the warmest smart-casual and non-magic mix she had; and she had been pleased with the way the red complemented her hair, emphasising its blonde streaks. Minerva had also opted for muggle clothing, for which the girl was thankful; she was wearing a casual version of suit trousers and a beautiful top in a green very similar to that of her eyes, highlighting just how bright they were. Her clothes and her messy ebony bun, as opposed to her usual severe one, made Hermione smile at how relaxed she was; they also accentuated a figure that the student had a hard time believing her mentor hid.

Scooping up the last vestiges of a succulent treacle tart, Hermione laid down her fork with a sigh. "Harry would have enjoyed that. Treacle tart was always his favourite," she informed her teacher, who was also just finishing her pudding. Her plate vanished as she too put her fork down, and the women surveyed each other over the tops of their wine glasses. "Thank you for a lovely meal, Professor."

  
Minerva smiled in response, nodding her agreement. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." Noticing the girl's wistful expression, she stood, carrying her glass of red wine with her to the sofa. "You miss them, don't you? Harry and Ron?"

  
Hermione followed, nodding. "I do, yes – I don't miss Harry's permanent stress levels, or Ron's manners – or lack of – or either of their nagging about homework…but I do miss them."

"I suppose Miss Weasley is a blessing?" Minerva took a swig of wine. "Thank merlin you're old enough to drink," she added. "I needed this."

  
Hermione grinned, welcoming the fact that her professor was so willing to relax with her, and answered her question. "She is…sometimes. I have good days and bad days, and she can be a royal pain in the…you know." She blushed. "But she's good at cheering me up too. Last night it was stories about Fred and George, which I think she needed as well." She bit her lip, pushing down tears. "Last week, before school started, was a trip into Diagon Alley shopping…the strangest was probably our game of truth or dare, the night before we came back to school. Mrs Weasley almost caught us twice!"

Minerva laughed. "Dare I ask what happened? And no, I don't apologise for the pun."

Hermione simultaneously giggled and blushed, and she barely mumbled her answer. Minerva caught the words "topless" and "too many questions" and smirked.

"Who dared who to strip?" She asked, still smirking. Hermione's face was now red enough to fry an egg on, and her professor was finding it absolutely hilarious.

  
"She started it. But we both had a hand," the girl acknowledged.

"I'm sure you did." Minerva muttered. Hermione pretended not to hear; she didn't want to consider what that meant. "Truth or dare?" Her teacher continued softly, but loud enough for the girl in front of her to hear.

Hermione stopped mid-sip and swallowed hard, free hand clutching the shin of one of her legs, which were curled beneath her. "I- what?" She asked, stalling for time and clearing her throat. _This woman will never cease to amaze me and surprise me,_ she realised. _No matter how long I spend with her, I will never truly know Minerva McGonagall. I don't know whether anyone does…_

"Truth or dare?" Minerva repeated quietly, emerald eyes burning into her protégé's.

"Erm. Truth?" Hermione tried, unsure what her professor wanted from her. She had a feeling this was more-or-less planned, and she'd just facilitated it.

"Do you trust me?"

The words were sincere, vulnerable, and still quiet. Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she hurriedly deposited her glass on the low table in front of the sofa, sliding along it to sit by Minerva. She prised her wine glass away, noticing that Minerva wasn't meeting her eyes, and took both her hands in her own, feeling all the bumps and scars from the three wizarding wars this incredible woman had fought in and survived. "Professor, I trust you with my life." Minerva looked up, a hopeful glint in her eyes. Hermione carried on, holding the green gaze with her own intense chocolate stare. "I trust you more than anyone else on the face of this planet. More than Ginny, more than the boys, more than Mrs Weasley…more than my own parents."

Tears in two sets of eyes were blinked away as Hermione released the hands she held and picked up her wine, swigging the remaining half a glass down.

"I'm so sorry." She told her. "So sorry for not letting you know. I can't believe you didn't know…"

Her professor stood up, also finishing her wine. "That, Hermione, is not your fault. And it's a relief to hear…very nice to hear. Thank you." She smiled and went to fetch the bottle, which she used to refill their glasses.

"Truth or dare?" Hermione asked with a lopsided, Cheshire cat grin.

"Truth. I'm not moving," her professor smirked back.

"I…" Hermione was floored. She didn't know what she would have said either way, she realised. She raised her eyes to Minerva's and shrugged lightly. "Tell me something I don't know about you."

Minerva smiled thoughtfully. "Ever-curious, Miss Granger. Hm…I understand the majority of the student population were under the impression myself and Albus were married, or at least 'together'." She wrinkled her nose at the term. "We weren't."

"I already knew that. Professor Dumbledore was gay…I worked that out a few years ago." Hermione smiled. "Try again."

Minerva looked surprised, but inclined her head and thought. She didn't know what to tell the girl. "Erm…I don't know what to tell you," she smiled ruefully. She wasn't used to being unsure.

"Have you ever married?" Hermione asked, trying to be sensitive.

Minerva frowned. "No, I haven't. And I won't."

"Not even for the right man?" Hermione asked, mouth pulling down at the corners at the thought of this woman alone.

"There is no right man," the older witch answered with a tone of finality, and Hermione didn't push her any more, appreciating that the conversation was over until – if – her mentor wished to continue it.

"Truth or dare?" Minerva's smile was back.

"Truth," Hermione answered promptly, taking another sip of her wine and smiling too.

"Are you really worried about me hearing you play?"

Hermione paused. She wasn't sure. "I…I don't know. I just…don't play. For anyone." She glanced up. "I am sorry I snapped, you know…it was automatic, but…if I had to play for anyone, it would be you."

Minerva's smile widened. "What were you playing?" She asked.

Hermione bit her lip, but one glance at those emerald eyes reminded her of what she'd said… _"I trust you more than anyone else on the face of this planet."_

She sighed. "The Phoenix's Story of the War." The name slipped easily off her tongue, although she'd rather it didn't – she hadn't planned to ever disclose it.

"Where did you find it, when did you learn it?"

"I didn't learn it… I wrote it," she answered carefully. "All the way through our year on the run, each individual event has its own…section, movement. Starting from Dumbledore's death, when Fawkes sang…"

Minerva snapped her mouth closed. "You have some serious musical talent if you can write and play to that standard, Hermione. Which section did I hear?"

"Yours. 'Most Magical – Minerva's Movement'. That's why I didn't want you to hear it." Hermione let all this out in a rush. "But you were always so courageous, so…brave. You lead the war, even after those four stunners…you were a leader in all of this. And I wouldn't have finished this without you."

Minerva was speechless; and that night was the first that Hermione ever saw Professor McGonagall, her role model and the rock of Hogwarts, cry.


	4. Chapter 4

A few weeks later, when the nights were drawing in and the cold air whispered through the castle, Hermione woke in the middle of the night to snow; soft, whispering snow that fell silently to the ground outside, drifting past her window and covering the grass in a fluffy white blanket.

  
Jumping out of bed, wrapping herself in a warm dressing gown and dashing to the window, Hermione watched as large flakes fell to gradually hide the grass below. The forbidden forest, bare of leaves, groaned as each tree was loaded with snow; the Whomping Willow shook itself irritably, knocking snow from its branches, and Hermione knew that soon there would be snow drifts feet high around its perimeter.

Watching the frozen water settle, glittering, many storeys below, was magical. The night crept on as Hermione sat on her window seat, simply watching all traces of green disappear. And suddenly, her (for once) slowly-moving mind cranked up a gear. She ran to fetch parchment and a quill, hurriedly sketching five lines across it, and settled once more by the window; and that is how she stayed, quill jabbing, stroking and flying across the roll of parchment stretched across her knees, until the sun rose.

As the sun crept above the tops of the bare and shivering trees in the forest, the snow was thrown into the light. Hermione, who was ready to lay down her quill, snatched it back up again, penning in a few more dots and swipes as the true beauty of the grounds became clear. Everywhere was covered in a good eight inches of snow, untouched and unblemished, and it was mind-blowingly, word-stoppingly pretty. The whole area looked as if it were sprinkled with icing sugar, ready to place lovingly on the top of a cake.

Glancing a critical eye over her composition, Hermione added in a single blob, and then placed it on the flat of the grand piano and hurried to get changed, mind whirring still; she didn't shower, and ran her brush distractedly through her hair. Mid-way through pulling on a boot, she hopped over to the parchment and titled it with a flourish, and then tucked it into the pile of similar parchments on the music stand of her piano.

  
The distant cries and squeals of students and charmed snowballs reached her ears and Hermione knew that the snow was no longer untouched. She'd been just in time, she realised – and she also knew that she was right; this would be the first time in a long while that some of those students, running around outside and laughing with their friends, had so much as cracked a smile.

Dressed and hungry, she set off running down the spiral stairs as fast as she dared and dashed to the great hall. She snatched a piece of buttered toast a couple inches from Ginny's mouth, smiled at her expression and told her she'd be out for the day. Luna laughed, a bell-like sound, and began buttering a new piece for her friend as Hermione left at a run again, cramming toast into her mouth as she went, thinking about how glad she was that it was a Saturday.

By the time she re-entered her room, the toast was gone, and Hermione sat down with a pleased sigh at her piano. She was in a hurry, but you couldn't hurry playing.

She took a deep breath, focussing on the parchment in front of her, and laid her hands on the keys. A word was muttered out of the corner of her mouth, and then another – and then she played.

* * *

The last note faded into the silence of the room, and Hermione let it. Then: "Finite Incantatem," she said calmly, and her papers reordered themselves on the stand; the writing was no longer in hurried blue ink, but inscribed perfectly in black and bound; they had turned themselves while she'd played.

Standing, a blinding smile on her face as she realised that she had finally done it, Hermione reached for her composition. The parchment bundle was heavy and she stroked the cover, tracing the letters of the title, before muttering "Geminio". She shrank the new stack of parchment, tucked it into her pocket and left her room, more sedately than before but with a spring in her step; her catharsis was complete, she realised, so she felt lighter than she had in months.

Little Professor Flitwick raised a hand to her in the Charms corridor and Hermione flashed him a wide smile, leaving him a little bemused. She continued through the castle, leaving in her wake a line of people all wondering what had got into their Head Girl – especially a couple of boys who not only got away with throwing a Fanged Frisbee past the end of the corridor she came down, but also saw her smile at Peeves!

Hermione, despite run-ins with a couple of staircases determined to throw her off, arrived outside her mentor's door with her smile still intact. She reached out to knock, and the clipped Scottish brogue of Minerva McGonagall soon reached her ears: "Come in."

Minerva looked up as the Head Girl entered her office, and couldn't help but gasp. The girl looked a little dishevelled; her hair was wild, and dark bags marred the skin under her expressive eyes, contrasting with the rest of her pale face. But she wore a blinding smile and her chocolate eyes danced with a happiness the Transfiguration teacher hadn't seen in anyone since…since before Dumbledore's death. She couldn't help but smile back.

  
"Hermione." She laid down her quill and stood, walking to the door in the corner. "Lovely to see you. How are you?"

"Good. Really good." The girl's smile, if possible, became even wider. "I brought something to show you. I'm not disturbing you, am I?" She hesitated in the doorway of Minerva's private quarters.

"No, no, nothing that can't wait. Nothing at all." Minerva beckoned again.

"Then…have lunch with me?" Hermione asked mischievously, almost echoing her teacher's blurted invitation of September. Minerva narrowed her eyes.

"Cheeky. You know I'm not used to being unsure." She couldn't help mirth creeping back into her voice. "Fine, what are you planning?"

Hermione shook her head slightly, but pulled out her composition, enlarging it and passing it to her mentor. She giggled slightly at the way Minerva's eyes widened impossibly, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline, and watched her trace the title as she herself had done not half an hour before.

"Can I…?"

Hermione answered the unspoken question by half-opening the first page. "This copy is yours," she told her seriously.

Warm and sincere chocolate met unsure emerald, and a strong hand gripped the page, turning it. As soon as it was open, a haunting yet happy melody rang through the air; Minerva watched as the music written on the page turned gold bit by bit, like a Muggle karaoke machine…

Hermione slammed the book shut again. "Not yet. I'll meet you in my room in half an hour." She laid the bound parchment on the coffee table and walked away from the open-mouthed woman. "You can listen another time," she added, trying – and failing – to hide the fact that her cheeks were burning. She left quietly.

Minerva stroked the beautifully bound parchment bundle on her coffee table, knowing that it must have taken Hermione hours of work to compose, write, bind, play, record and charm the whole thing into one piece –and duplicating it without losing the magical properties was hard enough, she reminded herself. Her protégé really was a skilled young woman.

She moved slowly through a second door, shedding her light robes as she went and reaching for muggle clothing. She assumed they wouldn't be in the warm Great Hall, and elsewhere it had been bitter cold recently.

Dressed, Minerva checked her watch – only to realise that it was just gone ten a.m. Why on earth was she meeting Hermione so early? She shrugged it off, once more gazing at the music on her table, and couldn't resist one more peek. She half-opened the first page, and saw that the entire page was once more written in black. Closing it, she traced the title again, longing to listen – but she knew she didn't have time. Leaving it there seemed impersonal and unsafe, so she took it reverently into her bedroom and laid it on the top of the chest-of-drawers.

Checking her watch again and summoning her tartan mittens, which she placed in her pocket just in case, Minerva McGonagall left her rooms, to do one thing she never thought she would – meet a student for lunch.

* * *

While her mentor had been getting changed, Hermione had been hard at work. She'd gone straight outside, to a sheltered spot hidden between two parts of the castle wall which stuck out, almost directly below her window, and readied it for a picnic – invisible, of course, to the rest of the Hogwarts pupils and staff. It looked out over the lake, and Hagrid's hut, which looked like an igloo on the edge of the forest. The surrounding snow was smooth and perfect; Hermione had removed her footprints.

Blanket laid down, warming spells over the area but _protego_ protecting the snow, and a steaming pot of tea (also protected with spells) next to the food and ginger newts, Hermione nodded her satisfaction, and glanced up at the window way above.

  
"Wingardium leviosa," she whispered, smiling as she remembered exactly what that particular spell had started her adventures seven years ago on Hallow's Eve.

  
She floated, weightless, towards her window, smiling so much her cheeks ached as her plan worked; she was so pleased, in fact, that she forgot how much she disliked heights. She drifted into her open window and tumbled to the ground, pulling it shut behind her, landing on the floor, unable to erase her grin. Shivering, she changed out of her robes and into the warm muggle leggings she'd laid out, hanging her coat by her bed. She was just in time, for Minerva was early – she hurriedly turned her back as the portrait of Godric swung forwards. "Hold on!" she called, pulling her knee-length jumper over her head. Minerva stood in the doorway, blushing madly as creamy skin disappeared beneath the teal wool. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, tracing its stonework, until Hermione turned back – fully-dressed.

  
"Sorry." Her mentor croaked, still admiring the roof. "I need to learn to knock, password or not."

Hermione laughed. "I'm done. You can look at me now."

Minerva did, and found Hermione smiling cheekily at her. "Your blush is kind of cute." She told her mentor, and then patted the bed. "Would you like to hear it?"

She walked towards the piano, and Minerva's mouth fell open. "Really?" she asked hoarsely, feeling a little overwhelmed but understanding why she'd been asked to come early. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching the Head Girl as she readied herself to play, but almost immediately stood and made her way to the window seat instead. From here she could see the music on the pages, the title of each movement, and the many dots and stalks that decorated the staves.

"Yes, really," Hermione told her, waving her wand towards the pages. They rustled as if in consent, and the girl smiled. Then she half-turned; "Did you not wonder why I asked you to come so early?" She asked. Minerva inclined her head, smiling.

  
"Then yes, Hermione, I would love to." She settled herself, shedding her coat and scarf and using them to lean on, whilst trying subtly to hide the fact that excitement was pouring off her in waves.

As she had that morning, Hermione took two deep, steadying breaths before looking at the page and beginning to play. _Before It Began_ , Minerva read, and again that happy, sunny tune rang through the room just as it had through hers half an hour ago. To Minerva's surprise, Hermione sang two lines in a sweet, melodious voice – "we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided."

  
Speechless, Minerva listened as the music changed. _Undeniably Dumbledore,_ she read, and smiled as the tune became fast and interspersed with higher, faster and quirkier segments; it was him all over, she realised. Her mouth tugged down at the corners as an echoing strain made itself known within the quirkiness, one that sounded almost identical to Fawkes's last song. It only didn't bring her to tears because of the quirkiness that Hermione had added, which still sounded within the phoenix song. Watching her Head Girl's fingers fly across the keys, feet pumping the pedals, Minerva felt a rush of admiration.

  
_The Yellow-Brick Road_ was the next movement's name, and rather than cheerful like the muggle musical it was coined from, this section of the composition was nothing but sadness, grief and guilt. A tear did force its way from her eye this time, but Minerva still had to admire the title of the piece. This way, no-one would know what the movement was about – but the yellow-brick road leads to Oz. Australia. This was one thing Hermione had confided to her – her decision to use the memory charm on her parents. Minerva had vowed to help her find them and bring them home.

  
Another page turned, and another, and a new title was revealed – _Weasley Wedding_ ; it was cheerful, happy, yet somehow nervous. Not a single note was out of place, and yet…something was wrong. Minerva realised that this must have been how Hermione was feeling throughout the wedding – prepared to flee. The movement ended on dramatic, jerky music and the final note rang out at the climax of such a crescendo that Minerva almost didn't hear the quiet notes of the next section. Strangely, the end of the fourth movement put her in mind of the busy centre of London…and red double-decker buses, she decided. Muggle London.

  
The music flowed so well, Minerva could barely believe a human being had composed it – let alone a seventeen-year-old girl. The next movement, _Taboo That Is Hindsight,_ was dramatic and clusters of high notes sounded like breaking glass – it was jumpy and set Minerva's teeth on edge. She wondered what had happened, so soon after the trio's departure.

  
Listening, Minerva felt enraptured; she couldn't move if she'd tried as music, movement after movement, washed over her.

_Guests of Grim_ was a strange one. Minerva assumed it meant that the trio had stayed at Grimmauld Place for a while, but then why did the movement begin so eerily and frighteningly? The rest was a puzzle – literally. There were so many threads, so many tunes, all playing at once; Minerva could scarcely believe Hermione's fingers would move so fast. And then at the end, the tunes separated into a kind of whole – like a plan that had come together, the Transfiguration teacher realised.

  
_Ministry of Mayhem_ came next, and Minerva knew some of what had happened here. The middle of the movement was euphoric, it spoke of success so great that she was at a loss as to what might have happened – but it ended with spinning, sickening drama. One dramatic chord faded into silence before the next began – _Splinched_ was the title, and Minerva suddenly understood as the music took on a panicky, emergency tone; in fact, Minerva thought she could hear under the layers of music two notes played in turn like a muggle siren.

  
The music continued, and Minerva began to lose track. One sad section stuck in her mind; _Home for Christmas_ was its name, and again Minerva wasn't entirely sure what it pertained to. She knew too little about the adventures of the 'camping trip'…she wondered if the trio had returned to The Burrow, the closest thing to home they had, for Christmas. Molly had never said. The movement seemed to be split into two parts by a diminuendo of both success and confusion; it began with bitterness and loss, similar to the movement about Hermione's parents and yet with a dash of desperation rather than acceptance…and after that, there was the success and then the pure, hollow sadness that was deafening. Clearly, this was an emotion that Hermione had felt keenly.

  
_Snake_ was a simple yet fitting title. The music was sort of slimy, slithering; it changed from quiet and tense to a climax which Minerva could only assume was a fight scene, but she could only guess at the event. She assumed those the trio were fighting were Slytherins, but somehow the idea didn't seem to fit. It was at this point that Minerva truly realised that Hermione had literally written a soundtrack of her war.

  
_Destiny and Destruction in a Doe_ confused Minerva so much, she listened even harder than she had been. She assumed the trio had been confused too; there was a trilling tune of discovery and wonderment which paralleled to one of horror, and the former changed to happiness and then annoyance and then…what was that?…Cold? Could music sound cold? Minerva wasn't sure. Panic took over the music and all the time, that horrific tune continued low in the piano's notes, filling the Transfiguration Professor with a sense of dread even as the first tune became relieved, even happy, and anticipation crept through the sounds. Suddenly, Hermione stopped playing abruptly, letting a note which sounded like a phoenix's interpretation of metal on metal fade into silence; and then the music began again in a loud, angry crescendo that whirled around the room. Minerva could have sworn that it ruffled her hair.

  
Again, a silence…and then quiet, gentle notes up and down the piano. A mix of anger and overwhelmingly powerful relief.

  
_Mudbloods, Manners_ was a chilling movement, the epitome of horror. The music was subtly elegant, yet the main emotion it instilled was pure fear. Minerva could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She didn't understand this title, though, or the event it pertained to; there was no way to know, except that this was possibly the worst thing she'd heard and probably the worst event of the war for the young woman playing the music.

  
_She Sells Sea Shells_ was a movement which must have been inspired by the ocean, obvious both from its name and its sound. It sounded like waves breaking, first angrily, destructively; a tinny tune which spoke of loss ran over it all. And then, it changed; the tune became quieter, the waves louder and gentler. Minerva could almost see the stormy sea settling, feel it around her ankles – and yet the undertone of phoenix song was still there, as it had been throughout. It was incredible. The waves changed from soothing to determined but not yet destructive; powerful, but still gentle, Minerva thought; they spoke of renewed energy and vigour, but an unwillingness to expend it all just yet. The tune was no longer tinny but strong and low.

  
_Fly Free of the Clankers_ was an uncomfortable sort of movement. Minerva thought she knew what it was about, because it had been in the papers; the break-in at Gringotts. She just didn't know how it had been done. She listened carefully as the music rose and then fell once more, still fast and tense but not panicky as it had been. It became echoing, and Minerva assumed this signalled the entrance to the tunnels; she thought she heard something that might have been water before the music hit a panicky high, and it seemed the break-in had been discovered. There was a period of quiet, and then a complete silence, which dragged on for so long that Minerva was beginning to wonder whether Hermione needed a break – and then she hit the keys again, loud and jerky, and her mentor realised that these must be the musical interpretations of the clankers. The music then became frenzied, and the frenzy didn't stop – panicky, then a burst of success, then pity, then fear…but all frenzied.

  
A few movements passed, and Minerva shed tears and laughed aloud and clapped and stayed completely silent, she just let the music carry her. She listened and listened and listened and never once grew tired of the haunting melodies, upbeat, slow, loud and quiet, solemn and giddy…she desperately wanted to know what happened to inspire each part of the music.

The final movement came, and Minerva sighed. _The Smiles of Snow and the End of the War,_ the title read, and the entire movement was happy and…twinkly, that was the best word to use. Played on the upper part of the piano, sets of four notes were played over and over in a kind of crescendo – like paw-prints, like a cat through the snow.

  
As the final happy, high, snowy note faded into silence, Hermione sang another phrase – a cappella, and taking her cue from the lowest note in the last chord she played.

"Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery…" She spoke the final part: "We are recovering."

* * *

During the picnic – which both witches readily tucked into, as the playing of Hermione's composition had taken them past lunchtime – they each had the opportunity to look around at the snow lying on the Hogwarts grounds. The magical, glittering powder, Minerva realised, was the last movement objectified. Hermione had got it perfect.

Suddenly, Minerva remembered sorting Hermione in her first year. She'd hidden behind all the knowledge she'd managed to glean from the textbooks Minerva had taken her to buy, and no-one saw through it to her nervousness – but she'd been shaking whilst she sat on that stool.

That was the last year that they'd sung the school song, Minerva reflected sadly. The song had been abandoned, and no-one could really say why, it had just…stopped. What had Albus said that year?

"Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here," she whispered, hugging her knees.

  
Hermione looked up. "Didn't Professor Dumbledore say that once?" She asked, taking a bite of a ginger newt. "Mm. I see why you like these," she added.

Minerva smiled, taking one too, and showed Hermione the right length of time to dip it into her cup of tea. "Yes, he did. At your Sorting Feast," she answered after swallowing. "I've just realised how true that is."

  
Hermione nodded. "I agree, Professor." She said earnestly. "Without it, I think I'd be pretty depressed. You know, with the war. Maybe I wouldn't even be here…" Minerva jolted here, glancing up, but Hermione was avoiding her gaze. "But it's been my catharsis. It helped me move past…everything."

"Am I Professor again now?" Minerva asked ruefully, and Hermione grinned.

"Sorry, Minerva, but when we talk subjects and debates I can't help it."

"That's alright, lass. I didn't know you could sing too," she added.

"Not brilliantly…" Hermione answered. "I just felt that it needed a beginning and an end, and I couldn't seem to do that with music alone."

  
Minerva nodded her understanding. "It works perfectly," she assured the girl. "That last section…did you write it this morning?"

  
Hermione nodded. "I woke up about quarter past one this morning, and it was snowing…completely silently, yet it changed the whole landscape. It was magical…inspiring. And look at how everyone smiles now; it's healing." She waved towards the lake, where Dennis Creevey was teasing his friend the giant squid and laughing with some classmates. He was _laughing_ …Minerva felt a huge smile spread across her face.

  
"I hadn't even realised it had snowed until we came down here. The picnic was very thoughtful of you, Hermione." Minerva smiled warmly at the Head Girl, who blushed and smiled back.

"I thought you seemed to like the outdoors…" She trailed off.

"Aye, I do, but aren't you sick of it after last year?" Minerva asked.

  
"Actually, I think that experience warmed me to it," Hermione answered earnestly. "I don't take anything for granted any more, although the tent was fairly cushy compared to muggle camping."

Her mentor found herself smiling again. "Perhaps one day we will go camping in the hills near my home." She could have kicked herself as soon as the words left her mouth, but she tried to cover it up; in her own panic, she didn't notice the girl blushing. "So, will you to tell me which events inspired which movement?" she asked hurriedly but interestedly. "I really am intrigued…if you're comfortable doing so, of course."

  
Hermione put her head on one side. "Hm…since you asked so nicely," she answered with a wink, willing away the blush that threatened to accompany the almost flirtatious attitude she'd taken on. She refused to consider it. "On one condition…" She added.

  
Minerva raised an eyebrow.

"That camping trip can be planned afterwards."

Slightly shell-shocked, Minerva reached forward on autopilot to shake her protégé's hand.

_What just happened?_ She wondered, but pushed away the thoughts and the rush of blood to her face as Hermione began to explain all the events that Minerva had missed.


	5. Chapter 5

Five weeks later, immediately after breakfast's late finish on a bitterly cold Saturday just before Christmas, Minerva could be found sat at her desk, scribbling as fast as an ink-filled quill allowed. Minerva's Movement filled the air of the room, seeming to vibrate and reverberate through everything. This was proving the hardest section; no matter how fast Minerva wrote, the whole page soon ended up crossed out. She just couldn't get this wording right, she couldn't interpret the haunting phoenix song correctly in this particular movement. All of the others were more clear, especially with Hermione's accounts of the events that inspired them, but this one was just…unexplainable.

  
A shadow fell across her parchments. Startled, she hurried to spin around, covering her writing swiftly and barely keeping her usual poise well enough to stay upright.

  
"Miss Granger," she said, covering her stumble with her usual, dignified tone. "You're early."

  
"Yes, Professor. I thought I would pop by a little early to give you your Christmas present before the lesson," the Head Girl replied. "Looks like I startled you as much as you did me, both times you let yourself into my room."

  
The Tranfiguration Professor blushed – curse the new regularity of that occurrence, she thought – and stood taller. "I wasn't aware we were exchanging Christmas gifts, Hermione."

"Well, we aren't," the girl answered smartly. "But I got you one."

  
Minerva rolled her eyes. "Isn't the music you gave me gift enough?"

"Perhaps," Hermione replied. "But you've given up hours of your week for my Animagus training since then. Besides, I wanted to get you something else."

  
Minerva was touched, and she smiled. "Are you staying here over the holidays?" She asked gently, not wanting to stir too many emotions to the surface. Hermione seemed much happier since she finished her composition.

  
"Yes," she answered, doing a pretty good job of hiding the shadow that passed across her eyes. "Harry is convinced he's near a breakthrough and after last Christmas, he doesn't want to celebrate. And Ron won't get much time off from training. The Weasleys need to take what they can together, to grieve."

  
"You're entitled to grieve too," Minerva reminded her quietly.

  
"I have," Hermione answered, indicating the bound composition she could see poking out from beneath the many parchments scattered on the older witch's desk. "I know my way to grieve. They don't. They need time. So I'll stay here and give them the space they need. I know them, remember, better than they know themselves sometimes."

  
Minerva regarded the girl coolly for a second, and then nodded sharply. "Your maturity never ceases to astound me." She smiled ruefully. "Innocence is always the first casualty of war. Now, if you're staying over the holidays, I suggest you keep that gift. I too will remain in the castle, and we can spend the festive season together if you so wish. Many staff and students are leaving to spend time with their remaining family and friends, and finish the grieving process. We may be the only ones left."

  
Hermione was surprised at how attractive an offer that sounded, and how shy it made her feel. She nodded coyly, willing away a blush, and papered over the awkward moment by clearing her throat and changing the subject. "So, um…what are you working on?" She indicated the mess of parchment, catching a heading as she did. " _ChapterThree: The Yellow-Brick Road?_ " She asked sharply, turning to a decidedly shifty-looking Minerva.

  
"I…it's my catharsis. It's just for me. I want to get it sorted in my head, what happened to you. Your war. I was going to show you, when I'd finished." Minerva was wringing her hands, her words tumbling over one another in her attempts to defend herself. "Please don't – it was never meant –"

  
Hermione had been gazing at the opening of Chapter Three, unmoving, but now she cut in. "No. Don't." She tore her gaze from the pages and reached forwards, gripping the clenched hands of her mentor and prising them apart. "If it helps you, I don't need an explanation. But maybe…maybe this should go further. People should know what we were doing when we were off the radar. Our war should be known. Everyone's wars should be known." Hermione was frowning, but her eyes looked alive. "It's part of Britain's – the world's – history. It needs documenting, and not just in textbooks. Personally."

  
Minerva smiled, squeezing her hands. "Thank you." She whispered. Then she sniffed and returned her voice to normal volume. "I guess that's a few more hours we will be losing each week, Miss Granger. Shall we proceed?"

* * *

Four hours later, Hermione had successfully run through every preliminary exercise to the transformation and had succeeded in changing the colour of her eyes, and almost entirely vanishing any visibility of the whites of her eyeballs. Minerva was so pleased, she ordered firewhiskey with their lunch, and clinked their glasses in celebration.

  
The witches ate their fill and nursed their glasses, each sat comfortably enveloped by both the burgundy leather of the sofa in Minerva's private quarters and the friendly silence which had fallen in the wake of their meal. Minerva was considering her happiness; she felt happier than she remembered in many years, and somehow, it all seemed to be down to the success – and emotions – of the witch before her, who somehow made her do some of the most reckless things she'd done in years – like drink firewhiskey with lunch. For her part, Hermione was revelling in the praise Minerva had bestowed during their lesson; she hoped to achieve a part-transformation in their next class, and was excited to discover what her Animagus form was, as well as break the current record for the time taken to (officially) master the discipline.

After a few moments' quiet contemplation, each wrapped in their own thoughts, talk turned to the book Minerva was drafting. Minerva floated the idea of adding Hermione's music to it, which she vehemently opposed, although after some time – and Minerva opening her copy and allowing the movements to play – her resolve had weakened a little. When that topic had been exhausted and Christmas discussed all over again, Hermione gently risked going a little more personal. "Professor, do you not wish to join your family for Christmas?"

  
"I have no family, Hermione. It is a hazard of living through three wizarding wars. Hogwarts is my family."

Hermione frowned. "You surely have loved ones, even if not blood relatives," she countered, trying to keep the pity and sadness – which the Transfiguration Professor would assuredly not appreciate – from colouring her tone.

  
"Not outside of the castle, only material objects and childhood memories, sadly empty and full of dust." The ebony-haired woman drained her glass and set it, surprisingly sharply, upon the table. "C'est la vie." She shrugged and settled back into the sofa.

  
Hermione didn't know whether pushing was wise, but she wanted to know more about the enigma she was sharing the sofa and most of her day with. "Surely, with all the amazing things you've achieved and all the people you've met, you once fell in love, Professor." She phrased it as a statement.

  
"Once, or twice. Maybe more." Minerva answered cryptically. "Either way, marriage was and is impossible, and one or both of us moved on."

  
Hermione frowned, not wishing to over-analyse and draw incorrect conclusions. However, phrasing her next question was not going to be easy. Thankfully, her Professor saved her the need. "On that topic, I am surprised you are not going to the Burrow to share your Christmas with Ronald, Hermione. I would have thought he'd appreciate support from his beau."

  
Hermione almost lost the last mouthful of firewhiskey she was carefully swirling around her mouth. "Beau?" She choked. "There is nothing between Ron and me, Professor."

  
Minerva raised an eyebrow. "That was…emphatic," she stated, but it sounded more like a question.

"Ron…did not see the obvious. Harry did, of course Harry did. But Ron isn't quite as in tune as all that." Hermione was babbling, she knew, but she had no idea what to say next. "Harry tried so hard to show Ron that he didn't upset me because he was with other people, he upset me because he thought him being with other people would upset me, Harry tried so hard…"

Minerva inwardly grinned at the unusually illogical sentence that came pouring from her protégé's mouth. "Hermione…" she cut across the girl's tirade.

"Yes?"

"Truth or dare?"


End file.
